MARTHA STEWART, SUPERSTAR
Is it just me, or does Martha Stewart bear a remarkable resemblance to Jesus Christ?
No, really. Hear me out.
Martha was immensely popular, with legions of loyal followers. She knew that if you give a woman a placemat, she’ll be stuck with the same table décor forever, but if you teach her to stencil, she will have a stunning array of accoutrements whenever needed, perhaps even in a loaf and fish design.
Well, the Authorities were threatened by Martha, and the population was restless. Some people simply refused to accept the annunciation of artistry, the gospel of good food. They ate Rice-a-Roni out of chipped and mismatched bowls and plotted Martha’s downfall.
Martha got busted on a trumped up charge (more about Trump later). And then… betrayal. One by one her employees testified against her. Some sobbed as they did so.
Martha’s followers railed against her accusers, they gnashed their teeth and pounded their bosoms in sorrow. But the Authorities could not be swayed.
Finally Martha came to understand that this was her fate. She would be horribly punished for the sins of all the uppity, brusque, business-like women who stepped on the toes of inferior men on their way to the top.
She refused to appeal, choosing instead to carry her spatula to Camp Cupcake and take it like a Messiah. There, she suffered. How she suffered! With only a microwave to cook with, Martha foraged for dandelion leaves and wild onions on the grounds. No floral arrangements in hand-painted vases graced the tables in the mess hall. No crocheted doilies brightened the cells. Martha did this for me. And for you.
You know how this story ends. Martha has been resurrected. Martha lives. Her name will again be large on her magazine cover. She will again crack eggs one-handed on daytime television. And yes, she will star in “The Apprentice-Martha Stewart,” taking her rightful place as the Queen of America on the throne right next to King Trump.
Break out the ramekin and make a soufflé. Carry it proudly to the table, singing hymns to the doyenne of domesticity. Martha loves you.